Heal the Error of Me
by Child of Mars
Summary: "The Shield was back in place. There were over twenty Crows on the ground, the War-Beaks. And there were Seven Crows in the air, all of them Shamans. And there was Phileas, a lanky, tall White Rabbit with one eye, one ear, and all the magic of the Tree and the Nether at his fingertips." - Rated T for violence. Sequel to 'Hireath - To Miss the Home One's Never Known.'


**Heal the Error of Me**

The Rabbit crawled up the steep tunnel, sniffing hungrily at the breeze that wafted down to him. He could smell spring and summer, and sultry black earth. He could smell the warm groundwater trapped under tufts of grass, and glittering pollen that had been brushed off wildflowers and into the wind by the wings of bees.

It really was a gift, to live at the First Tree. Every time he opened the door of the little shack he lived in or at times like this, crawling up out of the tunnel…he felt like all beings do when they leave the long, bone-cold sleep of winter and step into the sun-kissed Spring.

Back bent, he used his clawed fingers to grab onto roots and rocks as he made his ascent into the dappled sunlight above. One ear hung limply down his shoulder, brushing the dirt walls of the passage as he went buy. The other he was able to flatten down his back and keep clean.

The tunnel was rather narrow for someone who walked about on two legs, but the dimensions simply felt right to the Rabbit. Something written in his species' genetics, probably, left over from the days when he used to hop about on all fours. Why it was that he'd made the evolutionary leap that no other rabbits ever did...well, that was probably just magic.

As he emerged, the Rabbit paused to clean his crippled ear. Some vigorous dusting and the fur became a clean, fluffy white. Finished, he slung it back over his shoulder and gazed out across the clearing of the First Tree.

His undamaged eye narrowed sharply, scanning for a hint of danger. If a single blade of grass moved against the breeze, he would pounce on it like a hawk. Ready to attack, paws lit by blue flame and fire tingling his bones, with an entire arsenal of spells waiting on the tip of his tongue.

As was only to be expected. Because he was Phileas, Guardian of the First Tree. Before that he was the Cold One, and before that the Marquis de Hoto. And before that…a cast-off commodity, a simple gimmick in a trickster's top hat.

The sun…or what passed for the sun here, more like an otherworldly golden light that was never too hot and often filled the entire clearing…seemed to wrap the world in a hazy summer glow. Crickets sang from the waving meadow, and above his head the branches of the First Tree rustled in unending song.

"I'm ready."

Turning around at the sound, Phileas slapped at his shirt and shook his limbs vigorously, sending off the last clouds of dirt from the tunnel.

Kazimir Zaroff had once been a famed Illusionist and before that a Treewalker, though now somewhat beyond his prime. He was sitting under the tree, his legs crossed as if in meditation. But his eyes were very much aware and somewhat hostile as he watched the Rabbit approach. "You know that I'm quite capable of giving myself a short trim."

"Of course," Phileas lied, taking note for the tenth time that Zaroff had still not lost the delusion of his appearance. But who was he, really, to take that away from an old man? He sat down in front of him, closer than either would have liked. "But we don't have any mirrors here, and I still remember quite a bit about style."

"Perhaps," Zaroff ran his fingers down the weak, straggly hairs that drifted down to his shoulders. "But I don't see why it's necessary."

"Shaving your hair will make you seem intimidating, and it will give you an aura of precision and austerity." The Rabbit picked up the scissors from the jar that had been sitting all this time between the Tree's roots. "Besides, many famous Treewalkers called to service later in life have favored this look."

Zaroff still looked unconvinced. Phileas tried again. "Think of the maintenance…no more untangling or pulling leaves out of your hair. No more thinning hair jokes…no one will even know."

"My hair is _not_ thinning!" Zaroff snarled, "And it's not a joke!"

Phileas lifted his eyebrows.

They stared at each other, frantic, watery blue eyes against a single ruby. Finally, the older man sighed, the fight leaving him. "Alright." He fingered a wispy lock one more time. "Do your worst."

"Don't be so dramatic." Phileas scolded him softly. They fell into silence except for the shearing sound of the scissors and the Rabbit's breathing as he adjusted his stance to get a better angle. Zaroff's boney shoulders were lifted almost to his ears, tense with discomfort. Eventually they dropped by degrees…more due to reluctant resignation than any latent trust between student and teacher.

When the Rabbit had finished cutting as closely as he could, he put the scissors down and rubbed his paws together briefly. Zaroff narrowed his eyes at him. "Are you…?"

"A smoothing spell, a frivolous thing Boar taught me once." Phileas gave him an impatient look. "Unless you want to have a fuzzy peach for a head…may I?"

Zaroff consented with a sigh. Retracting his claws through magic, the Rabbit gingerly ran his paws over the bare scalp, muttering something in Greek. When he finally drew away from his former student, he sat back on his heels in the grass and took a moment to observe his handiwork.

Zaroff was now completely bald. His formerly sunken cheeks were as smooth as could be. All that remained on his face was a stylish goatee and a finely trimmed mustache. Before, he'd looked wild and decrepit. Now there was a strange sort of dignity about him.

With a small twist of displeasure, the Rabbit realized the goatee and mustache were very much like the set his student had sported as a youth. Only back then Zaroff had a healthy shock of hair to go with it. But decades of regret had no place in the moment.

"You look…like a wizard." Phileas smiled winningly.

Zaroff glowered at him. "And you sound insincere." His eyes flickered at something over the Rabbit's shoulders. Distracted, he turned back to Phileas. "But thank you for trying to make me feel better."

Phileas hesitated. He moved to a stand, instinctively preparing himself for a confrontation. The breeze on his face was warm, and so was his spirit. "Zaroff…_Kazimir_…" he used that name sparingly. After all, he hardly had a right to it anymore. "I'm not _trying_ to make you feel better. You may be a bit weathered, but you look like a wizard and you _are_ a wizard, through and through. Even your stubborn refusal to relearn your gift doesn't change that."

"This, again?" Zaroff grabbed hold of the Tree's bark, using it to pull himself to his feet. It was difficult for him, as the hand on his hip suggested "I told you…Magic isn't important to me anymore."

Phileas' ear lowered itself in anger. "You may have learned to live without it, but the world could benefit from your gift. You have the ability to protect the Tree and yet you prefer not to because of personal reasons. Personal reasons are trivial, you know this! Everything for the Tree, that is everything for us! You're a Treewalker and you should act like one."

"_Don't_," Zaroff growled. The elderly man patted the Tree as if in apology for the Rabbit's thoughtlessness. "You don't get to lecture me on my duty to our Order, _Cold One_."

Phileas felt as if he'd just been slapped in the face. He stared, feeling minor irritation turn to black anger in his guts. Like poison. Like the Mirror of Shadows, sitting in broken shards in the bottom of his heart. His fists clenched, claws biting into them. "The Cold One betrayed the Order, Kazimir." When he spoke, his voice was far calmer than he felt. It was almost silky. "But _you_ betrayed the Tree."

The faintest whisper of air against his good ear warned him that a clumsy fist was on its way towards his face. With an expertise born from years of combat, he turned and let Zaroff's right-hook glide harmlessly through the air by his whiskers.

He turned to look at Zaroff, voice dripping with contempt. "Feel better?"

"I missed," Zaroff snarled, "So _no."_

"Keep your hands to yourself…you know your heart is weak," the Rabbit warned him, baring his teeth. "I wouldn't want to use _magic_ to heal you again."

It was entirely the wrong thing to say, but the black shreds of mirror in his stomach shivered with delight. It made Phileas sick. It also made him stronger. There was a storm thundering in Zaroff's forehead.

But there was also a sunbeam behind the old man, glittering with dust. It shimmered a moment, and Phileas blinked in surprise. That same illusion that had visited him like a fever during his cleansing at the First Tree. The Marquis de Hoto was standing there, unobserved by Zaroff. He was towering over the small human and shaking his head at Phileas in disapproval.

Because Zaroff was an old man at the end of a wasted life, and here was Phileas provoking him into a fight. A fight he had no chance to win.

Shame burned in the Rabbit, and his paws relaxed. He saw his former student, sick with anger, struggling to come up with words that could hurt. He bowed his head, shaking it a little. "Forgive me, Zaroff...I had no right. The last thing I want is to cause you more pain."

Zaroff was quiet a moment, considering this. The weight of his old age and the newly learned patience he'd begun to live by prevented him from attacking Phileas again, much as he wanted to. And the apology was unexpected, simple. Perhaps even honest. "Old habits die hard, I suppose." He grumbled at last.

Phileas cracked a smile at Zaroff's irascibility. Even if his energy was sometimes maddeningly negative, it was good to see real spirit returning to his former apprentice. Anger was better than fear. With a snap of his wrist, he gave the man a flourishing bow. "In any case, you still look fabulous."

Zaroff snorted at the flattery. Then he turned around and laid his back up against the tree, shifting to press his neck against the rough bark. The action was comfortably familiar.

Phileas watched him with a faint sense of envy. His former student was so…_confident_ with the Tree, if that was the word. Fearlessly close, like the child of a king unafraid to run up to the royal monarch for kisses and hugs. It was clear to anyone who could see him let alone those who knew that Zaroff loved the First Tree. If he only embraced his powers again, he would be a wonderful Guardian.

And the Tree, in turn, seemed to have a soft spot for Zaroff. The old man could always hear the Tree whispering in the wind. He could hear soft consonants and syllables in the rustling of the twigs and branches. Sometimes he claimed that the Tree was even _laughing_ at Phileas. Often, he would bid the Rabbit to be silent so he could drift off to a woodland lullaby.

As for Phileas himself, he hadn't heard the Tree speak for a long time. Not since that terrible, wonderful moment when he cast off the prison of one name only to take up another. And not for all the terrible, blood-soaked moments that came before it, the years of betrayal and arrogance and cruelty. Even as a child, he hadn't taken much time to speak to the Tree. He'd always been restless, eager to portal away to another adventure.

He regretted not taking that time now. All he ever got from the Tree were glimpses, visions of his former self. A stinging reproach when the Tree felt he needed it. He didn't deserve the attention…but that hardly lessened his desire for it.

_And wasn't that a selfish sentiment. To cheapen his guilt for the sake of comfort. To reach for heaven when he had only just escaped hell. _

"So how is the tunnel going, and why are you making it?" Zaroff didn't open his eyes as he asked this.

Phileas grimaced at him. "It's going rather well, and I'm making it because I'm a rabbit?" He'd tried the real answer before…_because the Tree signals to me of danger_…but Zaroff hadn't believed him. After all, if the Tree was going to speak to anyone it would be _him_, not the Cold One.

And Phileas was inclined to agree. When he was underground in the stifling air, his eyes and nostrils bare slits in the darkness…when his clawed hands carved deeper and deeper underground, deeper into the roots of the First Tree…he felt safe. Secure. Hidden away.

It was a treacherous misgiving of his, that he was reverting into the scared little rabbit in the conjurer's hat. His…_episode_…with Jeremiah Hazelnut had forced him to sift through much of his unpleasant past, and some memories still seemed to bleed at times. Maybe the little rabbit in him was growing paranoid and drove him to get on all fours like a dumb beast and scratch down into the earth for safety.

It could have been mere animal instinct, and so he continued to dig and didn't argue the point anymore with Zaroff. "At least I have a hobby. If you're not going to learn magic and you're not going to do the dishes, at least take up gardening or knitting or something."

"I'm _old_," Zaroff stressed, "I've a right to sleep my life away."

The Rabbit rolled his single good eye, a reluctant smile on his face. Suddenly, his ear swiveled towards the edge of the clearing and he turned about, whiskers twitching. His clawed fingers stiffened, poised to summon defensive magic. "Someone's coming."

Zaroff opened his eyes and looked up, lifting his eyebrows as blue energy sparkled from Phileas' fingertips. "Really?" Moving with haste he picked up the scissors and stood up, hiding the weapon behind his back as he trained his gaze on the meadow before them. He was standing in support, waiting for Phileas to make the first move.

There were wards scattered throughout the meadow like a magical minefield. The Rabbit could and would activate them with a twist of his paws and a whisper to the wind. Coupled with his impressive array of magical ability and Zaroff's willingness to sacrifice himself as a target, they had a rather complete defense system.

Luckily, they were overprepared. There was a flash of light that opened in the air before them like a golden eye blinking. Out of the almond-shaped portal stepped a shaggy old figure. He was wearing shapeless clothes that managed to look like a dress and a painter's frock and a sweater with a rug thrown over the shoulders all at once. A ludicrously large medallion of clay hung down the front, bumping against his knees. Blue, with the curled feather-train of the Adarna swirling around the edge.

The Adarna was the name given to a legendary bird from ancient Spain that would sing a song of irresistible sleep. The song could heal any mental or physical illness. It was also capable of turning the dreamer into stone if angered or threatened. A most fitting spirit animal, since the comfortable, oddly dressed visitor was none other than Aro Molena, the Dream-Wizard.

Aro carried a brown paper bag under his arm that was bulging at the seams. Slung over his other shoulder was a threadbare pouch that looked like it'd seen better days. He shook his grey, mop-like hair out of his face and met the Rabbit's surprised stare. "Phileas," he said affably, "did you forget our game?"

"Our game?" Phileas quickly latched onto that. "The one I invited you to four _months_ ago?"

"Aro probably fell asleep and lost track of time," Zaroff saw an opening in the conversation and took it, discreetly pocketing the scissors as he bowed his head in respect. "Master Molena."

Stung by his own lack of hospitality, the Rabbit felt some of the old flare of a certain Marquis return. Extending a long leg behind him he arched his back gracefully, putting one paw on his heart and sweeping the other one outward like the wing of a bird. "Welcome to our humble abode, Master Molena." He gave the old wizard his best smile.

Aro glanced at the dainty wooden hut with the lopsided roof that was leaning against the Tree. "You know, it does detract a bit from the majesty of my dreams when I have any visions of this place. I presume it alters the visions of others as well."

"If dreamers need to see the Tree in pristine majesty, then that is what the Tree will show them. _IF_, on the other hand, the dreamer needed to see a hut that would remind him of social commitments long overdue, then of course the Tree would let him know," the Rabbit said pointedly.

Aro huffed under his mustache, but Phileas could see he was smiling. It made the Rabbit's heart feel a little less cold and quieted the shards of mirror in his stomach. He smiled back.

"Eh…pardon an old man's petty greed, but what have you brought in that bag, Aro?" Zaroff was standing nearby, gingerly taking closer steps as he tried to determine what goodies Aro was carrying.

Aro tossed the bag to him and Zaroff yelped, grasping it around the middle as silver paper shifted out of the open end like a blooming flower. "From one old man to another," the dream-wizard winked, "Chocolate, cheese, oatmeal cookies, crackers, and a _lot_ of milk."

"What, no carrots?" Phileas teased, laughing at the ravenous anticipation that flooded Zaroff's face.

A hand settled on his shoulder and the Rabbit was almost startled. Carefully, he turned his head to see Aro standing beside him, testing their boundaries. Testing the remnants of familiarity that had once existed between them. At this range Phileas could have reached out and yanked his beard. He was seriously considering it when Aro released him and took a step back.

Which was what the Rabbit had wanted, or thought he did.

"I'll bring a bushel to our next game if I'm the loser," Aro said dismissively, following Zaroff towards the house as the frail man moved surprisingly fast, taking their treats with him.

"But, my dear Aro!" Phileas easily kept pace beside him, straightening his cuffs in preparation for an intense round of Quartets. "You can't bring carrot bushels _every time_ we play!"

* * *

"Have you seen anything of Jeremiah since our last meeting?" Aro asked, dipping his crackers into his tea, a practice that had even Zaroff revolted.

Phileas managed to move past his discomfort to answer the question. "Not at all. I've received a few mysterious packages from him but that's about it. Do you have Acorn Three?"

"No. What kind of packages?"

"Souvenirs from his travels, I assume," the rabbit drew a new card from the deck. "I mean, he really didn't send any notes to explain otherwise. As far as I can tell, he's mapping the Blighted Gates."

Zaroff choked on his tea. Far above their heads, the endless, soft creaking of the First Tree skipped. Like a broken heartbeat. An intense burst of complete silence that caused the rabbit's whiskers to twitch.

Aro stared nervously at the window and the bit of starry sky visible there. Grey cloud-shadows, stark in the moonlight, flowed across the windowsill like a dark river. He took a few calming breaths. For a moment he looked something like a deer contemplating whether to bolt across a highway.

Phileas stared at his old friend with the same kind of nervous anticipation. _Waiting for a car to hit him. To send him skittering across asphalt into oblivion with a roar of heat and sound._

But then the dream-wizard managed to banish whatever terrible thoughts were plaguing him. He turned to the Rabbit and simply nodded. "And what souvenirs would these be? Do you have Raspberry One?"

"Yes." Phileas said simply, handing it to him. His aura was subdued, almost submissive, his red eyes gazing intensely at the older man. "But it…it's only good things, Aro. The Blight hasn't moved in all this time. In fact, our side of the Divide has only gotten stronger."

"Raspberry Three?" Aro looked at his cards. He just looked at them.

"Here." Phileas handed him another, bending his head slightly as he tried to catch a glimpse of Aro's face. "And it wasn't just that. Jeremiah's been sending me things from all across the Tree. Artifacts for safe keeping, ancient relics we thought lost. Also, little pictures of people he's saved, and worlds he's preserved."

A terrible energy was simmering between them, building like pressure in a kettle. Zaroff glanced furtively between the two, mind racing.

"Raspberry Four?" Aro asked, his voice brittle. The flickering firelight made his eyes into twin caves of shadow, black and deep.

Zaroff looked at Phileas. The Rabbit's face was stricken by guilt and worry. Raw, open concern that was almost too bright to look at. He'd rarely seen him so speechless, so _helpless_.

Quickly, without thinking, he broke the silence for the pair of them. "It's almost as if Jeremiah wants to show Phileas his progress…and I'd say it's boasting but the lad is far too good a person for that." He laced his voice with just the right amount of snide hostility. "Why do you think that is, Aro?"

Aro glanced at Zaroff, surprised. "I…" he hesitated. The answer Phileas couldn't suspect. The answer Zaroff had mostly figured out by now. The answer that fluttered in Aro's face like a caged bird. The dream-wizard calmed it. Kept it secret. "Maybe he wants to make us…remember what it was like." He glanced back and forth at their faces as the lie went about and yanked down the curtains of memory, revealing a darker, uglier truth that had been looming over them all this time. "To have Treewalkers tending the Tree."

The Rabbit stared. Licked his lips. Faltered. "But," he whispered, the most hesitant whisper Zaroff had ever heard from him, "_there __**are**__ Treewalkers tending the Tree_."

Stricken, Aro stood up sharply. His eyes were still black. His shapeless form looming and terrible. "Keep the chocolate. I must go."

"But…_Aro_!" The Rabbit nearly lost his composure, reaching out to him as the old man turned and swept out the door. His fingers brushed the end of Aro's poncho. His whiskers trembled at the rush of cold air that came back as the door slammed shut. Outside, the faintest sound reached them of a portal opening and closing again.

And then there was nothing but the First Tree's cricket-song, and branches in the wind.

Zaroff gave Phileas a careful look. The Rabbit didn't move, as if paralyzed by the sudden absence. After a moment, Zaroff took another sip of his tea. "You know, he's not gone for good." His words seemed clumsy and harsh. "I mean, he's _Aro_. He's not going to hold a grudge. You said nothing wrong…just bad luck."

Bad luck might have seemed a pathetic, callous attempt at excusing genocide. But Zaroff hoped Phileas knew what he meant.

"I haven't atoned yet."

Zaroff stared at the bottom of his teacup, watching the last drops slide around the bottom rim. "We don't always get a way out of our guilt." _Nails stabbing the Heart of the Tree, the Heart of the Universe. Little Jeremiah's body hitting the hard wood of the stage. Little Jeremiah's burning fury as his friends lost their minds and there was no time to cry for them. _"Guilt is part of penance, you know. You don't get clean dreams in this life."

_The Cold One meets Boar's charge, a fireball in his hand. His fist meets Boar's tusks and the fire spreads all over him until Boar is a pile of quivering dust. Zaroff watches, his foot on Snake's neck, keeping her from helping Boar. Zaroff watches the Cold One kill Boar, and says __**nothing**__._

"I wasn't thinking of me, Kazimir. But thank you for your staggering insight, as always."

It was the first returning spark of spirit. But the Rabbit's eyes were dull as he looked down at the cards, at Aro's abandoned pile of crackers. "I meant for Aro. For his sake, I need to do…_something_. As long as their deaths hang between us, he'll feel like a monster for forgiving me."

He lifted his hand. Two cards left. He smiled, buck teeth glinting in the warm glow of the hearth fire. And the smile was sad, and sharp, like a knife. But the knife wanted to plunge inwards. "Ah well. He didn't claim Raspberry Four, so we can safely call this a draw. Don't you think?"

* * *

_Aro stands behind the Rabbit, smiling as the lad struggles to hold onto the cards being spat at him. They fly faster than leaves in a gale and several minutes pass before he manages to get them all securely in his grip. The Hall of Apprentices sings softly, every portrait humming with energy, all of history murmuring behind the stones._

_The Rabbit turns around, ears quivering with excitement. "Here's my cards! The Draw of the Treewalker!" he pets them into a semblance of order, staring anxiously at Aro. "Should I even see them, d'you think? Is it safe to see your own future?"_

"_It's not always __**your**__ future," Aro says gently, reaching out a hand to pat him on the shoulder. Years ago, he would have ruffled the Rabbit's ears. Now the boy is all grown up and important and prefers praise to physical affection. "Sometimes it's a tribute to what you've already been through. The scars that make you."_

_The Rabbit grows pensive. He sniffs the air. Old habits. He looks up at Aro and his scarlet eyes glimmer with uncertainty. He suddenly looks very young._

_Aro's heart clenches. Old habits. "Do you want me to look at them first?"_

_The question pricks the Rabbit's pride. "Allow me," he responds graciously, flicking a card from the deck and twirling it in his fingers. It looks like a magic trick. Except when the Rabbit looks at what he holds, no one cheers._

_The Rabbit doesn't even smile. Pain flashes in his face. "I…, well." He says, trying to muster back some bravado. "Scars indeed. We're off to a good start!" he flicks it back into the deck, but Aro's quick eyes still steal a glimpse of the little bunny in the magician's hat. A past the Rabbit would rather forget than forgive. The identity that, even now, still takes the wind out of his bravest sails._

_The next one meets much greater success. The Rabbit laughs aloud, and Aro's heart lightens. The sound of it has always been the most magical thing about him. The first sound of courage the boy ever made. The first sound of joy. When the Rabbit laughs, even Owl smiles. _

_Aro grins at him. "What is it?"_

_A shiny image of a much bigger, stronger looking Rabbit. Wearing a red coat of flares and ruffles, with powerful magic soaring around him in a protective wreath. Aro's throat thickens at the sight of what his apprentice will become._

_But the Rabbit is not alone on the card. There is a little human with him. Well, little compared to the much, MUCH bigger top hat. It practically dwarfs the boy, barely held up by his ears. Aro thinks there is some message of irony in the hat. He doesn't dwell on it._

"_Is that an Apprentice?!" The Rabbit exclaims in delight, "MY Apprentice?" The sun could come down from the sky and it would hardly dim the boy's delight. "__**I**__-I get to teach another Treewalker!"_

_He was so excited he was almost stuttering. Aro nodded. "There is a light and a power in you…like newness breathed into the heart of our Order. Where some of us might grow tired, you can run forever. You will be a __wonderful__ teacher and an inspiration for generations of Treewalkers. I __**know**__ it."_

_The Rabbit flushed, almost weakened by such heavy praise. He flashed Aro a grateful smile and ducked his head. Demurely, he looked at the third card. And looked again. He studied it for a few moments. "Hmm. Neither good nor bad. I can't tell what's happening here but…" _

'_**I look tired**__.' Is unsaid. _

'_**That's because you've become a full Treewalker**__.' Is a joke Aro never makes. The Rabbit's laugh is magical, but he doesn't always know how to laugh at himself yet. But he will, in time. He has a noble heart and an infectious love of all life. Given time, given trust, he will learn. _

_The last card causes immediate panic. The Rabbit thrusts it into Aro's hands. "What's happening to me there? What's happening to me?!"_

_Aro looks at the card and then drops it. Moving quickly, he puts both hands on his Apprentice's bony shoulders and squeezes, willing strength into him. Forcing the world to stand still a moment. "Now calm down. You are a Warrior, Phileas, as am I. You know…you have always known, that we could die. Our lives don't belong to safety and comfort and craven quiet. They belong to glory, and mercy, and justice. To the defense of the weak and the protection of the Tree. They belong to friendship and family and courage. You are infinitely more than this body. You are a song that will someday cease."_

"_But a song is never forgotten," Phileas finishes numbly. His arms ache from the pressure of Aro's hands. But he somehow feels __**safer**__ in that hold. Safe enough to mumble the litany. "You were meant for greater things. To be sung forever in the branches of the Tree."_

"_And to fly forever in the sunlit sky." Aro's arms slip around him. Hugging him tightly. "For a song is a spirit set free, and there is more to this world than Death." He feels the little body shudder at those words. __**He is too young. He is still the sun my world revolves around, for all he knows. Why did the Tree make him see this?**_

"_And Death is no more than waking up,"_

"_And hearing the call of Love and Light,"_

"_And realizing you have come home at last." Phileas finishes. Slowly, not quite letting go of Aro, he puts some distance between them and looks down at the card between their feet._

_The Rabbit of the future, once strong and shapely and glorious to behold…now crouches against a tree. Weathered, worn, eye and ear broken, fur gouged by claws. Hiding. Quaking. Waiting to be found by a foe he cannot match. _

_Waiting for death._

_There is an odd silence. Then, the Rabbit looks at Aro and shrugs. The terror is receding. He points at his own face and tries a watery smile. "Well, as long as this is still here…" his smooth, matching set of ruby eyes blink as one. "I don't have to worry about it. Right, Master?"_

* * *

Phileas rubbed his single eye. Then rubbed it again. At first, he thought the brown smidgen of dust on the horizon was dirt from the tunnel, clouding his vision. Now he realized it was a tiny visitor, a little creature that came across the field with silent steps. No portal had tingled his senses…the newcomer must have come up through the branch-paths of the Tree.

Which meant something. Good or bad, it meant something important.

He turned to Zaroff, who was letting milk dribbling down his chin as he finished his breakfast, made up of the rest of the chocolate Aro left. He felt a flash of irritation lift the fur on the back of his neck. "Clean up, grandpa," he growled, whipping a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and throwing it at Zaroff, "We have a visitor!"

It wasn't just the sight of milk dripping onto the old man's shirt that angered him. It was the blatant disregard for their surroundings, the inability to watch for danger that could be completely fixed simply by embracing magic again, if only his former student wasn't such a stubborn old goat. And also the milk. Mostly the milk.

"Didn't you offer yourself as a servant?" Zaroff grumbled, still not grasping the _'we have a visitor' _statement as he cleaned himself up.

"You refused. Very handsomely."

Finally, the tiny figure was close enough for the Rabbit to ascertain what it was. A Mouse, most probably from the world of Mousewood.

Owl's old world.

The mouse was small, brown, dazed, and confused. A backpack twice his size was strapped to him and something orange and vibrant was clasped in his paws.

His pace never faltered, however, as he walked straight up to the Rabbit where he stood on the crest of the hill, just under the protection of the First Tree's leafy crown. His whiskers trembled a little as the Cold One glared down at him. "S-s-sir? My name is…is Timson…Dandelion!"

Timson Dandelion couldn't have known it, but Phileas was glaring at the orange thing in his paws. It was a carrot. A peace offering and an inside joke at the same time…a reminder of a failed spell and the terrible, all-encompassing kindness of a stranger.

Jeremiah Hazelnut. Jeremiah had sent this tiny wisp of a field mouse through the Branches of the First tree with nothing but a carrot and a Lifeline Spell to guide him.

"_**And I am the Marquis de Hoto. A pleasure, I'm sure!"**_

He didn't say it. The instinct was there. The gallantry, the arrogance, the bubbly optimism and excitement. The thrilling joy of living life as a Treewalker. But he couldn't. He had corrupted and spoiled that old version of himself long ago…he had a new name now, a new identity.

He didn't say it. He let the memories echo in his ears, instead reaching out and swiping the carrot from Timson (which was quite a feat for his spine as the mouse barely came up to his knees in height). He then took a large, noisy bite. The crunching sound would have startled birds from the Tree if any lived there. He chewed. Swallowed. "And I am Phileas, Guardian of the First Tree." He muttered, trying not to sound unkind. "And why has Jeremiah Hazelnut sent you to me?"

Timson only blinked at him, his beady black eyes trembling with the fearful question, _how did he know?_

Sighing, the Rabbit squatted down on his heels, making himself seem less imposing. As he came closer, he caught a whiff of something…something like bark and black powder, like crushed leaves and lightning. Like water and dappled sunlight. Like _magic_.

"Timson Dandelion," he said slowly, gently, "don't be afraid. Or if you are afraid, don't let it stop you. Tell me who you are, and what your errand is."

The Mouse managed to shake off his stupor. His paws were still clenched in his backpack straps. "I…I was sent by Jeremiah Hazelnut, like you said. He's…he's my Master now. Apprenticed me, just four days ago."

"And sent you through the Branches of the First Tree already?" now the Rabbit began to be worried. "Why? What has happened?"

"Crows." The Mouse suddenly seemed to grow still. Calmer. Heat flared in his eyes. "Crows, that's what. They've grown fat on the filthy waste, and they are trying to pollute Mousewood, and every world they can fly to. Jeremiah was fighting them…oh sir, he made me leave him behind! Told me to ask you if you knew of a way to force them back into their eggs."

"What?!" Zaroff sputtered.

The Rabbit was surprised but busy. He nodded. "Rather than kill them, he wants to turn back time, clean up the waste that corrupted them. He wants to give them another chance?"

The Mouse nodded.

"For an entire race, it would be an extremely difficult feat."

"Not to mention impossible!" Zaroff interrupted, "Time-travel is problematic enough, how do you expect us to forcibly reduce an army of birds to babies?"

"Oh, so _now_ you want to talk about magic?" the Rabbit scowled abruptly, narrowing his eyes at Zaroff. "Please be a consistent sort of nuisance and let us Treewalkers do our job!"

Chastened, Zaroff nevertheless succeeded in making an offensive gesture at Phileas. "Go ahead then, Treewalker. Don't forget to show off."

"I will, thank you!" The Rabbit said testily. He put a paw on Timson's shoulder, focusing again on the matter at hand. "What you seek is the Stone of Nesting. A powerful gift from the First Tree to the Phoenixes. War and famine had forced them to the brink of extinction, until their most powerful and gifted leader chose to sacrifice herself. She returned to the moment of her first life and, at the same time, became the seed for her second. So did all her people, and so do they continue to be reborn until the Seasons Unending."

Timson was listening intently with his big ears. There was a certain enchantment in his face as he paid rapt attention to the Rabbit's story…a dreamer who seemed to have something of the courage of a warrior. No wonder Jeremiah chose him. "But because a sacrifice was required for this gift…their ancient queen does not resurrect with the rest of them. Her essence is housed in a fiery stone and kept in reverence by her people. While she is removed from them, there will be no more rebirths. It will be difficult for you to persuade them to let you borrow the Stone."

"And besides that, these Crows are another race entirely. I could never get the Stone to work for anything but a Phoenix. But it is the only artefact I know of powerful enough to perhaps do what he asks…and if any Treewalker alive can figure it out, then it is Jeremiah Hazelnut."

He paused. "I can't give you a Map. All Treewalkers must know the ways by heart. But I can tell you this…seek for Fire and Feathers, for Stone and Sacrifice. Use your magic and…" he paused, staring for a minute at something hanging around the Mouse's neck. He smiled. "Use that coin as your Master has taught you. You will find the way."

Timson glanced down at the coin and touched it, feeling the cool metal. He looked up again. Most of his initial fear of the Rabbit was gone, replaced by something almost like trust. "Couldn't you come with me? Help me?"

Something tugged in the Rabbit's chest. Tugged so hard that it bled. Pain and longing and the iron grip of self-restraint seized him inside. And guilt rose, shades of black and grey, tangled and from so many sources. He dropped his head and let the crown of '_hero'_ fall off it. "I would be honored, Timson. But I'm serving out a sentence of justice, and to leave here even for a moment…I can't come with you. I would love nothing more. I would love to fight beside you and Jeremiah, I would love to fight for the Tree as I used to, long ago. But instead, I must protect the Tree with my weakness. And…and that is my fault. Please, forgive me."

There was a quiet, heavy silence. Zaroff had turned away from them, watching the clouds drift across the bright sky. Timson gazed at the Rabbit's bowed head. Then, he took a step back. "I don't think I rightly understand your reasons, sir. I didn't know the Cold One, except by stories here and there. And I don't know what changed you, or what keeps you here. But I do know…at least, I hope I know…you mean every word you've just said. And I thank you for it."

The Rabbit looked up, and graced Timson with a wretched smile. There was a red ocean of glass trembling in his eye. "You know…" his voice was guttural, thick, "it was a Mouse that took my eye, Timson? A Mouse took my eye in fair combat, in defense of his homeland, with courage and determination. Half-blinded me for life."

Timson hadn't expected that revelation. His eyes widened and he took another step back. "Meaning, sir?"

"What the idiot means is that he admires you, and that someone as powerful as he once was can be defeated by someone as small as you, because of your strength of heart." Zaroff had turned around now, and the sun was at his back. He was an impassive silhouette of black.

The Rabbit quickly ran his sleeve across his face, sniffing briefly before glaring at what he hoped was Zaroff's eyes. "You're remarkably direct for a former showman."

"There's nothing remarkable about your long-windedness," Zaroff countered. He took a moment, studying Phileas' sun-flooded face. Then turned to Timson. "While this is something you apparently must do alone, Timson…feel free to come back for help or advice. We can see about sending word to Jeremiah and perhaps he can meet us here…"

"No." Phileas abruptly stood up.

"Must you keep interrupting me?" Zaroff grumbled, somewhat hypocritically.

The Rabbit ignored him. He was gazing down at the Mouse, and for a moment his aura seemed to sprout around them like a protective wall of heat. His single red eye locked with Timson's beady black ones. "You have to go now, Timson Dandelion, and you have to move quickly. Whatever you do, you must not come back here. We're going to Ward the Tree. After retrieving the Stone, you must take an alternative route back along the branches…it will take more time, but if you use the Coin it safest way back directly to Jeremiah. He needs you."

Timson didn't ask questions. He gave a swift nod and then turned, pelting off towards the trees. His backpack swayed like a small ship, odd articles dangling and rattling from bits of twine. He was barely out of earshot when Zaroff came close to the Rabbit, his voice harsh. He hated being uncertain, and he didn't like the way Phileas' urgency frightened him. "Why did you tell him that?"

In his head, Phileas could hear the beat of black wings. The harsh, laughing cries. The static tension of danger in the air that smelled like burnt incense and downed powerlines. The Tree swayed above their heads, branches creaking like the wooden sides of a ship, straining as if the ocean itself was pushing against the walls.

The Tree signaled to him of danger. It had been trying to warn him all along.

* * *

_The Roots between Worlds are woven, in light and joy and forgetfulness. A warm haze normally hides the paths unnumbered, preventing travelers from planning anything beyond their next step. But in this part of the weave, thick and old…the haze has cleared away._

_There is a doorway here, an opening crowned in moss and framed by the roots themselves. It hums and pulses with a blinding glare, like reflected snow. It is loud and noisy, and the world beyond seems to rush by like a torrent of white water. The other gates are quiet and warm, and one could fall into their worlds seamlessly._

_This gate feels dangerous. Unstable. _

_Treewalkers of all shapes and sizes are gathered around it. Their hands, paws, and feelers are pressed against the gnarled surface of the roots, digging through the dark leaves and dusty scraps of spiderweb. They dig until they find the glowing orange runes, and then they halt. _

_Snake's Tongue never even flickers as she curls her entire body around a root, scales brushing the runes, warmed by their light. Boar and Bat and Aro Molena, eyes screwed shut, lips whispering, they concentrate._

_Every so often, one of the runes they are pressed against flares brighter. When it does, the snowy white glare of the gate seems to soften. The wood at the edges of the doorway is turning grey with frost, poisoned by some kind of strange rot. But the wood under the hands of the Treewalkers is still healthy and brown._

_They have been waiting here for hours and are prepared to wait hours more. However, other Treewalkers suddenly begin stumbling through the stormy gate. Stork and Naiad and many more, some of them shivering, bringing the Winter with them. Shaking off the snow. Other Treewalkers press hands to them, warming the furnace of their hearts. _

"_What news?" Bat asks, her leathery wings stretched between roots, warding off the frost with her shadow._

"_No use," Stork answers, voice thick._

_Some of them turn back to their work. Some of them have tears in their eyes._

_Through the poisoned gate, in the Winter, two dark figures stand. They are not visible to the Treewalkers beyond the doorway. _

_The Marquis is crouched down, staring at the snow with a focus powerful enough to melt it. The wind bends his ears backwards. Beside him, Owl clings to a frozen branch with great clawed feet. He ruffles his feathers in an attempt to keep warm. "It is too late," he says. His round, angry eyes of gold swivel from the Rabbit to the blurry horizon and the bitter winds storming there. "This Blight is unnatural...not a part of the Tree. It has been fed by something, some great apathy or rejection of life."_

_There is a blizzard swirling around them, kept at bay only by the power of the Rabbit crouching in the snow. Owl wonders how the people of this World have survived the Blight as long as they have. "Which means there must be another sacrifice. A burst of warmth, the greatest gift of life…death." He is quiet for a moment. Thinking of home, of his old hollow in the Tree and the long dreams shared there. He smiles, both soft and sad. "This world will not be frozen over. I can thaw it."_

"_No." _

_Owl's head turns sharply, looking down at his former apprentice with more concern than annoyance. "You have grown powerful, Marquis, but even you can't save me from this. You know it's the only way. Go back to Kazimir. You and the Treewalkers can elect a new leader. As for me, this is my time."_

"_Your time? To die?" The Rabbit does not move. He is deathly still. "To save this world you would doom thousands of others to suffer without your aid, without your wisdom. Have you even weighed the good that you do…the good you could do in the future…against this? You maintain more limbs than most Treewalkers put together. You can't just abandon them."_

_Owl's voice dips lower. There is something pleading in his tone, something gentle. "Power does not make a Treewalker. Nor does success, nor does efficiency. I could fail a thousand times and still be a good Treewalker. Because a Treewalker __**is**__ good. These people deserve to be saved, and I can't be the one to let them die. I love a thousand worlds as one, and one world as a thousand. I would die for our Order, and I would die for you, my friend. You understand, Phileas?"_

_A feathered wingtip brushes the Rabbit's shoulders. "Not everything is as simple, or as dark, as the Mirror showed you."_

"_Not simple," the Rabbit's paws clench, "not __**dark**__." _

_In the blink of an eye, the Marquis is on his feet. Snow sprays behind him as he turns, a warped bubble of air blossoming from his hands. A shockwave of force, it hits Owl and bears him back, slamming him through the open doorway. Feathers flutter to the ground._

_The Rabbit straightens his coat. All around him, the blizzard swells, growing taller and darker. Louder. _

_Ruby eyes glitter, sharp and determined. "Not simple, not even dark," he repeats, preparing to follow, "But __**Cold**__."_

_Before he gets close enough, however, he hears a flutter of soft wings above. The Moths have gathered. Snowflakes soak into their paper wings. Half of them are cradling eggs in their appendages. The others are trying to shield the bearers from falling snow. _

_The Marquis looks above his head and sees Moonlight, their High Priestess. _

_She is almost as white as the snow. But there is a light that glows in her, soft and warm. "Marquis!" she exclaims, her feathered antennae twitching. "The other bugs are ready to leave. The Crawlers and Diggers and Hoppers are gathering down below. Is there time to get through the portal?"_

"_For you Winged ones, yes," he says bluntly, "but only Winged ones. And not through the Portal. You have to fly through the Tree itself, on the Raven's Paths."_

"_I know the Paths somewhat. But…but Owl said we could __**all**__ be saved!" Moonlight exclaims, wings fluttering. "He…he said he would make sure that we had time."_

"_And he would have. But I stopped him."_

"_You!" the Moths around him hiss, their hovering becoming more difficult with the growing storm. Their agitation is thick now, their sorrow already strong. They are Moths, and Moths always know the truth before it is told to them. They know he has betrayed them. They may even know how many of them will die before they escape the Blight._

_Moonlight swoops bravely down towards his face, staring into his ruby eyes with her opaque black ones. "Who are you to sacrifice our people?!"_

"_Who are you to sacrifice a Tree-Walker?" the Rabbit snarls back, "No one. Compared to Owl and our kind, you are __**no one**__."_

_He steps by her. To fight her is not his intention, but he will set the entire race on fire if they try to stop him. _

_Moonlight turns, her antennae twitching as the Air itself gives her a message. A vision, born on the wings of another sight, another world. "You are not the Marquis de Hoto," she says in wonder, her wings slowing._

_The Rabbit stops. He does not turn around. The blizzard's howling grows._

"_You are…a reflection," the Moth Priestess begins to climb, her voice pitching in horror. "A reflection from a dark mirror, walking paths not meant for you, living a life that does not belong to you. Cold One! I see your name, Cold One!" she shrieks, and the sound of it echoes from Moth to Moth. They screech and flutter and some of them begin to cry as the snow numbs their wings._

_The Cold One looks at her. His red eyes are chilled and white at the edges, like frost creeping over glass. "Fly." He says, and his voice is no different than before. But the words are terrible. "This world's time is done. Fly away before the Frost can reach you."_

_With a flourish, with a mocking bow, he backs into the Portal gate. He barely disappears through it when a tangle of roots tears out of the ground. Sheets of ice bursts out, stabbing the air where the Portal once was, sealing it off. The doorway is gone._

_Only the cold remains._

* * *

The Wards scattered across the field had been activated and primed. The only way to find them were the patches of haze where even the grass-flies refused to buzz. Wherever the air rippled and the wind wouldn't stir was bound to be a Runic Ward. They were meant to paralyze and stun if even so much as a claw brushed the tips of the Ryegrass growing there.

How effective they'd be against winged attackers, Phileas wasn't sure.

He was standing with his back to the charged meadow. His paws were flung outwards, moving like he was smoothing out invisible wrinkles in the air. In truth, he was priming the most difficult Ward of all.

The one on the Tree wasn't a Trap Ward or a Runic Ward. It was an Isomorphic Ward, capable of recognizing Treewalkers. The Crows wouldn't be allowed through, but Phileas and Zaroff wouldn't be besieged inside the confines of the Ward, either. They could pass freely on either side.

Which was ideal because despite his best efforts, Phileas couldn't get the Ward to extend beyond halfway through their little hut. Which meant any attacker would be able to raze half of their home to the ground if they chose.

Zaroff continued to give him grief about that every time it was mentioned.

A humming sound slid through the air, a cloak of noise that tickled his whiskers and meant the Ward was complete. Above his head, the First Tree's branches waved back and forth, endlessly shifting without any breeze to move them. A bright green canopy of shade and dappled sunlight.

For a moment, he imagined the Tree stripped of leaves, bark gouged off, roots torn. Imagined it silent and still, so far gone that even the Sun couldn't warm it. The thought made his heart drop to the soles of his feet. He'd faced many threats before, but not alone like this. Not when it was so close to the Heart of everything he knew.

"You could have been clearer," he mumbled, crossing his arms and glaring upwards. "Made me understand a little sooner."

"Maybe you would have, if you hadn't been tunneling like a dervish on fire." Zaroff must have approached him from the hut. "But then again, you always hear exactly what you want to hear, no more, no less."

Phileas gave him a level stare. The old man was awkwardly holding a kitchen knife in one hand and their only cutting board in the other, like a shield. He smiled. "Bet you wish you had some magic now, don't you?"

Zaroff snorted. "Add it to my long list of regrets."

"Ah, so you regret not learning it!"

"I regret not having it."

"What's the difference?"

"_You_ figure it out."

Phileas almost laughed. Somehow with danger approaching, Zaroff's salty attitude made it a little easier to breathe. If they could get through this alive and in one piece, the Rabbit would gladly lose all of their arguments for years to come.

Zaroff had softened somewhat. "Look, I know I won't be much help, and I'll be even less help outside of the Ward. But I can give my life in a courageous last stand and maybe get you water from the well when you need it. That's protected, at least!"

"Actually, I need you in the tunnel." Phileas bounded over to the roots of the Tree, pulling aside the make-shift twig bundle that formed a rough sort of door. "And I need you to go to the very bottom and stay there." He saw Zaroff's mouth open in protest, fire in those scraggly grey eyebrows. "The Heart Root is exposed," he said quickly.

The fire exploded. Zaroff turned a shade paler with rage. "You should know better than to expose that!"

"Well I stopped when I realized _what it was_!" Phileas snapped. "It's not big enough for anything but, oh, a Crow's _beak_ to get through. If you want, you can try to bury it again…"

"And risk a cave-in?!"

"I think you'll find _my_ tunnel a little more stable than that."

"Let me guess. Because you're a rabbit."

"Well I'm certainly not a crotchety old man!"

"Well this 'crotchety old man' is going down into your dusty tunnels, to solve a problem _you_ created. And if the Crows manage to get past you and start fluttering down, I'll stab them in the eyes with my kitchen knife."

Phileas nodded, pleased and a little proud. He took Zaroff's elbow and helped the angry old man down into the tunnel. Sliding onto his trouser seat, Zaroff twisted around and looked up at Phileas. His blue eyes were sharp with something besides anger. Something almost protective. "I better not choke on the dust down here."

"Yes, don't do that," Phileas agreed. "Someone might miss you. On the other hand, your burial would take all but a minute."

Zaroff glowered. Still frowning, he reached out. Phileas took the bony hand in his white paw. "We're Treewalkers," the Rabbit said at last, 'this is what we do."

"But with only one functioning Treewalker and the Tree's Heart exposed?" Zaroff shook his head. "You'd better pull off some kind of Marquis-Miracle."

"That's not who I am anymore." Phileas tried to pull away. His former apprentice held him fast.

"No. And yet you're still here. That's a kind of miracle, isn't it?"

The Rabbit's good ear straightened, tilting towards the sky above the forest edge. A tiny black cloud had appeared, bleeding tiny black shadows that fluttered as they drifted towards them. Phileas pulled his paw away and turned around, his red tailcoat flying. "Quickly. They're here."

"_Move, Kaz…not another word. Get inside." The Marquis stood over him; paws flared. Kazimir can see ice crystals falling from his clawed fingers as a cold magic chills the air. Across the village the Fire Elemental rages, screeching as she eats her way towards them through the tall grass and wooden huts._

_Kazimir's knees are skinned. His top hat has been lost in the panic. He is half inside of a root cellar door, leading down into a cool stone room that will hopefully protect him from the battle about to happen. "But…I can help…"_

"_Yes. By keeping safe. I can't fight her unless I know you're beyond her reach. Now please, Kaz…do as I say!"_

Zaroff turned around and scooted down the dark tunnel, grunting with effort as he pulled the stick bundle after him, effectively plugging the shaft. As a boy, the Rabbit's shadow had always made him feel safe. He was too old for such sentiment now but, knowing Phileas was standing guard above him, powerful magic swirling brightly in his paws…it did give Zaroff some foolish confidence that somehow everything would be alright.

Never turning around, Phileas kicked backwards at the sticks to make sure Zaroff had pulled it firmly in place. Then, he watched the threatening spread of Crows as they began to spill over the horizon and into the sky above the clearing.

Almost immediately, his careful eye saw that they were soaring too high to trigger the Wards shimmering in the grass.

He could fix that. A simple matter of throwing his soul to the clouds above, eloquently begging and pulling and demanding what he wanted. Every element was different, required a different method of approach. Storms responded well either to great sorrow or great outrage. As Phileas held his paws up and closed his eye, he felt the sky darken. Black clouds moved faster than the black crows and blanketed the clearing. The wind picked up and the hairs on his neck stiffened.

Using words from a language only ever whispered under mushroom caps, the Rabbit yanked his paws downwards. _Weep for the earth. Empty yourself on the suffering._

The rain began to fall. Fat, thick drops that bent the blades of grass and spattered on the Crow's wings, weighing them down. Sliding awkwardly to lower altitudes, some of the Crows even began to land. Before they knew what was happening, a dozen had stumbled upon the first Wards. A shock of pale purple light and they became stiff bundles of feathers, scattered about like patches of dark, breathing flowers.

The rest of them were flying low and dangerously fast as they slammed into the Shield-Ward. There were harsh cries of pain and the hiss of singed feathers as they fluttered away, shocked and angry. Phileas could see their eyes now, glazed and shining. There was no light in them.

_They've grown fat on the filthy waste, and they are trying to pollute every world they can fly to._

Poisoned by the Grey Mountain. The human waste at the edge of Mousewood had only been a stinking pit when the Cold One last journeyed there. Still something of a Marquis at the time, he'd planned to keep an eye on it and bring a few others to see if they could find some way of getting rid of the problem.

So perhaps these Crows, driven mad by corruption and disease…perhaps this was his fault as well.

He paced along the barrier, shouting. "Stay back! The Tree is protected. You'll only kill yourselves!"

Some of the birds were on the ground, hopping back and forth. With lightning speed, their thick black beaks stabbed at the shield. The sound of it was like wood knocking on glass. But there was nothing they could do to damage it.

The Shamans, however, were another matter.

Completely undisturbed by the rain, there were more than twelve Shamans still in the air. They were soaring in great swooping arcs around the Shield. Their feathers never so much as skimmed the surface, as if they knew exactly where the barrier was. They were chanting, the guttural words falling soundlessly on the heads of their soldiers. Phileas murmured counter spells, his eye darting nervously along the Shamans' wings as they pitched and wheeled.

He could see the glittering dust of painted runes, barely broken by the feathers. They were like the Treewalker Runes except maybe the design was sharper, crowned by slashed lines and stiff angles. Listening to their croaking chants, he understood the basic gist of what they were planning to do.

One of the Shamans suddenly broke formation, swinging out wildly towards the horizon as if in retreat.

Phileas lunged forward, bending down so his forepaws hit the ground first. On all fours he sped around the inside edge of the shield, his head turned, ears flopping behind him as he watched the Shaman, trying to keep himself between it and the Tree.

With a graceful dive, the Crow had turned around. Wings hardly flapping, propelled as if by the wind itself, he was coming straight for the glistening shield wall. The Rabbit's heart was in his throat. He dug in his heels, dirt spraying up around him as he came to a grinding halt and held his arms crossed before him. His voice was low and urgent, barely audible over the crack of beak and claw. "Blink in Time. Blink in Space. The thought is an arrow and so is the enemy. Open that you may close again."

There was a sound that warped the air…a buzzing, like a flood of insects. Startled, some of the Crows on the ground tripped and stumbled through as the purple energy dissipated. Others realized what was happening and hopped over their fallen brothers, wings outstretched. Just as they made it over the Shield Wall suddenly sprung to life again, blinking back into existence and cutting off any tail feathers remaining in the way.

The Shamans were even quicker. Seven of them were inside before the Shield reformed completely. The first Shaman's aim had been to break the wall with magic and death, a sacrifice to let the army through. Instead, he collided with the tree. Phileas didn't know if he was even alive. He only saw him plummet soundlessly to the ground.

The Shield was back in place. There were over twenty Crows on the ground, the War-Beaks. And there were Seven Crows in the air, all of them Shamans. And there was Phileas, a lanky, tall White Rabbit with one eye, one ear, and all the magic of the Tree and the Nether at his fingertips.

He ran.

Spells formed at the Shaman's wingtips and hurtled down, scorching the grass where he had been. White energy that sizzled like human electricity, turning the plants to ash.

Phileas bolted around the Trunk, claws scrabbling to not trip on roots as his mind raced. He had to keep the Crows occupied, all of them. He had to make them think he was the last thing in their way. He had to pray they wouldn't notice the bundle of sticks covering the tunnel.

Suddenly there was a Crow behind him, beak snapping at his tail. He bolted away, paws moving almost as quickly as his mind. Magic had always come easily to him. One of his greatest joys. Now he watched fire and ice, light and acid, sorrow and fear flow from his heart, along his sleeves, and blossom into a show that would have shamed Mousewood's fireworks. Sparks sizzled in the grass. The gnarled surface of the Tree danced in the light from below, bright and colorful against the grey storm.

And suddenly Phileas felt claws in his shoulder. Immediately another set clamped around his head, piercing his chin. Blood trickled down his neck. Half blinded but still every inch a warrior, he merely pointed upwards and funneled Regret itself straight into the Crow's head.

With a cry of agony, the Crow released him and fluttered back, shaking its head. Crying.

Phileas _danced_. He sent one Crow into the shield with an invisible fist of earth. Another he trapped in a cage of roots. Using the memory of water, he deflected the Shamans' spells back at them. Lightning leapt from raindrop to raindrop and lit the sky on fire.

Until he felt more claws in his shoulders. He hadn't slowed down at all…he should have been impossible to catch. But as his feet left the ground and the bones of his fingers turned to stone, petrified by a peculiar clicking coming from the crow's throat…he realized a Shaman had caught him. A powerful one.

His claws strained, unable to cast spells, unable to move. He opened his mouth to shout a word of power and the Crow's claws slashed across his face, slicing his nose and cheek. Coppery blood trickled down his throat. The tip of his tongue had been torn. Higher and higher, he was lifted into the air.

He saw storm clouds like a fluffy grey ceiling above his head and heard the beat of the Shaman's wings. The Crow was going to dash him against the shield and then probably plummet to the ground, burning Phileas along the way until either the magic or the blunt trauma killed him. Giant, dark green leaves from the Tree drifted by him in distress. But the only thought echoing in Phileas' head was, _did they find Kazimir. _

The lightning. It flashed in the sky, winking at him.

Some of the raindrops were still dancing. Swallowing blood and saliva, Phileas stuck out his torn tongue. One landed on the tip and he swallowed, chanting the Word of Power in his head, hoping it would be enough.

White light exploded outwards from his ears, his eyes, and every one of his claws. The Shaman screeched in pain, wings going stiff as Phileas screamed. For an awful, awful second, the two of them were suspended by agony and nature's playful fire.

And then the claws in his shoulder simply slipped out. There was cold, wet air billowing his whiskers. The ground grew larger. Flying black shapes narrowly dodged his descent. His fingers were scorched but free. He curled them painfully. _The Dandelion flies._ _The wind flies. I am a leaf on the wind._

And for a moment, he was.

Softly, he felt himself drift down until the grass was within his reach. He latched onto it with his paws, pulling himself down until he was on his own two feet again.

His shoulder was bleeding too, soaking his arm and wrist. Staining his fur.

Even as he dodged around the Tree again, he felt the eyes of Crows lock onto on him. Some were flying through the branches above, tearing at the leaves, breaking twigs and sticks. Others were hacking at the roots like their lives depended on it. It was only a matter of time before they found Kazimir and the Heart Root.

The thought chilled him. Like a cold weakness that sliced through his spine and caused him to collapse, shuddering, against the bark. The Tree was bleeding too. He could feel the sticky sap pulling at his fur.

He sniffed the air, trying to predict where the Crows were by the way they pushed the wind.

When he did so, the scent of sap and bark and leaf flooded his senses, nearly clouding his purpose. Racing through tall green grass, golden dust glittering. And the memory of his third card came back to him. The Quartet that had haunted him his entire life.

_The Rabbit of the future, once strong and shapely and glorious to behold…now crouches against a tree. Weathered, worn, eye and ear broken, fur gouged by claws. Hiding. Quaking. Waiting to be found by a foe he cannot match. _

_Waiting for death._

Missing ear and eye, check. Fur gouged. Check. Crouching behind a tree, waiting for death?

Check.

Face wet with dew and blood, he put his head back and laughed. Because at last he understood. Somehow it was so much worse than he'd ever imagined…yet he never thought he'd care so little.

It took supreme effort just to push himself back onto his feet. But he was smiling as he did so.

"_You'd better channel some kind of Marquis-Miracle."_

"_That's not who I am anymore." Phileas tried to pull away. His former apprentice held him fast._

"_No. And yet you're still here. That's a kind of miracle, isn't it?"_

The Crows came swooping around the Tree, straight towards him. A current of wind blasted them back. At their second charge, two of them were eaten up by strange holes in the air that spat them out beyond the Shield. The last six hit a cloud of acid that would have destroyed their feathers if the Shamans hadn't countered the spell.

The whole flock descended on him, claws and beaks stabbing at white fur until blood stained the grass.

* * *

Zaroff had his head buried in his arms. Sitting with his knees drawn up, back pressed firmly against the dirt wall and the tiny chink of light where the Heart Root glowed.

He could hear the fluttering, the crack of thunder. The rain, with the dust turning darker around the mouth of the tunnel. The harsh cries of the birds. More than that, he felt every shuddering blow as they burst through the shield and began to tear at the skin of the Tree.

More than that, he'd heard Phileas scream.

It happened not long after the Crows reached the Tree. A sound of pain wrenched from his old master that clawed through Zaroff and left him breathless. He didn't know whether the Rabbit was alive or dead. He didn't like what that terrible ignorance…that _not knowing_…did to him.

Clutching the kitchen knife, he tried to peer between the sticks. Black shadows constantly snuffed out the grey light, passing over it rapidly. The Crows were outside, stabbing, seeking. He hoped Phileas was fighting them. If not…

"_There is a prayer for Treewalkers, Kaz." The fight with the Fire Elemental had left the Marquis in a bad state. He was happy and proud, but his body was covered in burns and much of his fur had been scorched off. He sat with Kazimir in the cool cellar, waiting for the flames to die down above them. "We've talked about it before, but I don't think you were really listening."_

_His paw rests lightly on Kazimir's hand, both blackened by soot. When he came down into the cellar to retrieve Kazimir he found the boy covered in snot and tears, shaking from terror. But his voice was gentle then, and his ruby eyes are soft and kind now._

"_If you ever find yourself fearful of death, then you can give it a try. Remind yourself…that there is no such thing as an end, not for anything with a living soul."_

_His whiskers tickle Kazimir's cheek, breath warm, the sheer size of him a comfort to the tiny human._

"You are infinitely more than this body." Zaroff murmured, staring at the flickering light with wet eyes. An old man's eyes. "You are a song that will someday cease. But a song is never forgotten."

_(Phileas is in pain. His coat no longer protects him. It is shredded. He lies on his stomach, protecting his arms. Magic cannot answer his paws if they are broken. He is curled up in the wet grass, feebly whimpering spells in his head that do no more than deflect some of the blows.)_

The shadows lingered longer on the sticks. Zaroff gripped the knife tightly, only mouthing the next line. "You were meant for greater things. To be sung forever in the branches of the Tree."

_(There are only two Crows on him now. The rest know he's done for. There is a frantic, unfocused energy in the Shaman and the War-Beak as they rake his spine with their claws. They turn him over.)_

"And to fly forever in the sunlit sky."

A shiny beak of ebony plunged through the sticks. Like kindling, the trap door flew apart. Zaroff panicked, slamming his back against the dirt in an instinctive effort to retreat. But while his body was afraid, his mind was with the Tree above him and the Rabbit lying injured or dead somewhere outside.

"For a song is a spirit set free," he lifted his knife, voice strong, "and there is more to this world than Death."

_(The last insult. The Shaman tilts its head above him, rain falling. And then it pounces. Something stabs him in his very brain, pins him to the earth. The world blinks, but never opens again. Nothing but darkness and fading thought. He feels himself disappearing.)_

"And Death is no more than waking up,"

A Crow pushed down into the tunnel, his brothers crowding behind him. Black, beady eyes locked onto Zaroff. Behind the old man, shivering in the darkness, covered in dust…the Heart Root glowed.

And glowed brighter.

"And hearing the call of Love and Light. And realizing…" Zaroff was shouting now, hoarse with unshed tears. Loud with impatience, angry at the hesitation of the Crow, who seemed stunned by something else. "_Realizing you have come home at last!_"

At those words, the dark tunnel erupted. Runes of light seemed to sear into existence, painting their way along the wooden roots, golden marks that extended all the way outside. From the Heart Root itself came a blast of wind and energy that blinded Zaroff, causing him to curl up to the side. He barely dared to breathe at the noise, the sound that ripped through the world.

_(He thought he was fading. Now he realizes he was only ever asleep. He opens his eyes and sees nothing but unrelenting black. The world is black and full of sound, so loud it hurts his ears. Rain and Crows and the Wind roaring and Kazimir screaming in terror._

_And then, like blue fireflies, he sees streaking trails of light zoom through the air above him. Shapes, surreal and uncertain, as if the carvings on the Stones of Apprentices had left their rocks and were now flying loose. There is no sound anymore from the Crows. Only rain, and the leaves of the First Tree whispering together._

_He must be dying, he thinks. He must be hallucinating. _

_Until familiar feathers brush his fur and a low voice warbles in his ear. Like the laughter of a river, like the sharpness of grass blades._

"_And so, the Rabbit and Zaroff save the Tree once more. My boy, I never expected less of you."_

_**Owl?**_

_Even as the question forms in his head, he sees a hundred gossamers of blue light sprout from the blackness behind him, looming into the sky. They rise, weaving straight and high until they reach a center, then burst and sparkle outwards like fireworks. Like leaves._

_The First Tree, its pulsing veins laid naked to him in his blindness. _

_Owl's face appears before him, eyes wide, deep and kind under shaggy brows. A ghost's eyes. Yet more alive than he has ever seen them. Kinder and happier than he has ever seen them. Owl's shining blue wings brush his cheek with a fondness he does not deserve. Because he is Owl's murderer. The Cold One._

_Owl frowns, and his eyes become fiercer. More tender. "You're not the Cold One anymore, because you chose not to." The Rabbit blinks away tears and blood as his old mentor bends over him in blessing. "Not the Cold One anymore, thank the Tree. Now it's time to become what it promised you. Something different." His gaze travels wistfully over Phileas' face. "Rougher at the scarred parts."_

"_Purer at the smooth parts," he feels Boar's muddy breath on his stinging shoulder. Feels the pain fade. He gasps, reaching feebly and finding nothing._

_Snake's scales, warm and dry across his stomach. Snake's flickering tongue as she kisses his cheek and forgives him. Brings him to tears. "And stronger at the broken parts," she hisses, "Stay strong, Phileas. Your magic is powerful…don't forget that you by yourself are __**infinitely**__ more precious."_

_**No.**__ He wants to say. __**I don't deserve it.**_

"_No one does," Boar grunts, gruff yet heartfelt, "Why do you think it's called forgiveness?" Echoes of impatience, of the bad temper Boar was once famous for. "It's up to __**you**__ to take it and run with it, Long-ears."_

_And when they leave him, scales and feathers and muddy breath…he is cold, so cold. The Tree fades, but the darkness remains. _

_Until boney hands pull at him, rough fingers awkwardly cupping his ruined face. And he is still crying.)_

* * *

_The sunlight is streaming through the windows of Aro Molena's home. Although he lives by the railroads, he has no official occupation concerned with the upkeep of them. The humans who maintain the trains rarely notice his ramshackle dwelling. Even if they catch him outside and stop to question him, they never seem to remember the interaction afterwards. _

_It is the hottest part of the day, a late afternoon in Summer. But Aro is piled up in a nest of blankets, eyes closed. Snoring. He is fast asleep, his Spirit wandering the Dreamworld._

_He doesn't stir when his door creaks open._

_More out of place than Aro yet even better armed to magically wipe anyone's suspicious memories away, the Rabbit steps inside. His ears brush the top of the doorframe and his whiskers twitch as the smell of Aro's socks and laundry and lunch left out for days on the table assail his senses. There are odd magical artifacts and mundane human necessities scattered everywhere._

_But the Rabbit doesn't have time to be disgruntled. He doesn't have time to tease Aro about it, even if the man were awake._

_Instead, on soundless paws, he strides over to the bed and looks down at the sleeping figure. Fingers flex as he holds them out over Aro and lets a single word slip into the air. "Somniferous."_

_A fine grey dust settles on the man, sprinkling his hair and face, making him look a hundred years older. His breath deepens. The Rabbit sits back on his heels, crossing his arms in satisfaction. Without further ado he proceeds to snoop around the room, playing with random objects and shifting things out of place like a disobedient house cat._

_Until a ghostly figure the color of turquoise shimmers through the sunlit wall. It flits towards the sleeping body, bending down in hurried investigation before rounding on the Rabbit angrily. "What have you done?!" Aro's Dreamshape cries, "Remove the curse immediately! Allow me to wake up!"_

_The Rabbit had been smiling triumphantly before. He carefully schools his face to neutral and lifts his paws placatingly. "And perhaps I will. But we needed to talk first. You, more than anyone else, Aro…you need to understand. It was self-defense. I swear." He tries to make his voice sound soothing._

_But the Dreamwalker only bristles, his eyes unwillingly drawn again and again to the Rabbit's changed appearance. He had dreamed of him before, standing there with his enchanted katanas, wearing the black colors of the Nightwalkers. The broken ear, the missing eye. To see it standing in his living room is a nightmare. "You were cutting off entire __**worlds**__, Phileas. Leaving them to freeze and die. No decent Treewalker could stand by and let that happen. How dare you twist their heroic sacrifice into some kind of personal attack."_

"_I will continue to cut off Portal worlds if I need to. Wherever the Blight strikes. Gardeners prune dead leaves and infected plants. The Tree is, after all, a plant. Powerful and magical and fundamental and wonderful…but still a plant."_

_The Rabbit steps closer to the ghost, unafraid. His lips curl in a snarl. "And please. Heroics? Pathetic attempts to assert their dominance over me. I've been the greatest of us for a long, long time now. The only reason they wouldn't listen to me was __**jealousy**__, pure and simple. Fear too, probably. Afraid of what had to be done. Afraid of __**me**__."_

_Aro's ghostly eyes are like ice. "That's the trouble with looking in a mirror," he says pointedly, voice fraught with exhaustion and pain, "You only ever see yourself."_

_The Cold One smiles with sharp teeth. His single eye turns crystalline, like a broken ruby shard. "And yet I stand here, while every Treewalker who set himself against me is gone, and you yourself are trapped in your own bed, for as long as I choose. Forgive my impertinence, my old Master, but if you ever wish to wake up again, you had better mind your tongue."_

"_I do not wish to wake up," Aro said sadly, turning his back on the threat. "I don't want to see the Tree when you're through with it. I don't even want to see __**you**__…not after all this. Please, if there's anything left in you that cares about me, at all…please leave, and never come back."_

"_Retreating into your dreams? Typical," the Rabbit sneers. He tilts his head, peering through Aro as the shadowy figure flits nervously. "What's this?"_

_In a short, sharp stride, he rudely walks right through the Dreamshape and looks down at Aro's physical body, at what the Dreamshape was trying to hide. There is something clutched in Aro's physical hands. Without hesitation, he reaches down and pries it free. A corked bottle. A scarlet liquid swirls inside._

"_A healing potion," Aro says quickly. A little too quickly._

_The Rabbit holds it closer and reads the label aloud. "Arcana…Aggranda." He looks up, confused. "An Enhancer, Aro? Really? What were you going to do…swallow this and then challenge me to a duel?"_

"_I __**told**__ you. Not everything's __**about**__ you." Aro replies through clenched teeth._

_The Rabbit barks with laughter. The sound is sharp and tearing and Aro stares at him. Without further ado, the Cold One reaches for the cork._

"_Now you've stooped to theft?" Aro cries angrily, hands swatting ineffectively at the bottle as if he would slap it out of the Rabbit's grasp._

"_Now, now, Aro…" the former Marquis smiles knowingly. Cruelly. "You always said, what's yours is mine."_

_With a hollow pop, he uncorks the bottle. The world dissolves around him into streams of light and color…in the space of a single breath, he feels himself land heavily on a glass floor._

_There is glass all around him. A giant paper label wrapped around halfway…and beneath the label, a carefully concealed Rune. A Trap Bottle. _

_The Cold One can't believe this is happening. He rears to his feet. "No. No, no, no!" He slams his fist against the glass, looks up, and sees the dark circle where the plug has nestled firmly in the neck of the bottle. Towering above him, he sees Aro's Dreamshape walk to the sleeping body and whisper a single word._

_The Dreamshape dissipates. The body of Aro sits up, awake and free. _

_Tricked. He's been completely and diabolically tricked. Almost impressively so. But he's far too angry to appreciate it. "Aro…Aro, let me go."_

_He doesn't know why he thinks that will work. That a simple request from him is enough to make Aro forget everything that's happened, everything that's been said. But Aro has been his savior, his father, his friend. Surely…surely the old man isn't going to kill him._

_Aro doesn't even look at him. Doesn't approach the tiny bottle sitting in the middle of his living room floor. He merely moves around, puttering. Shifting things. Rearranging whatever he stores in the cabinet by his bed. _

_The Cold One can't contain his agitation. He can't summon magic in the bottle. He can only slam his fists against the glass once more. "I spared you!" He roars, "Remember? I __**spared**__ you!"_

_Leaving the cabinet open, Aro turns and approaches him. There are tears in his eyes._

_When he sees __**that**__, the anger begins to drain from the Rabbit. Cold fear takes its place, nipping at his heart. Aro lifts the bottle and cradles it in one hand, trying not to look as he carries it back towards the cabinet._

_The Rabbit presses a paw against the glass, towards Aro's face. "The Tree will die without me, Aro. You can't guard it yourself. You're not strong enough. Set aside your petty jealousy, your old-fashioned ideas. Set me free, and we can work together as Treewalkers!"_

"_You are no Treewalker," Aro replies, voice distant. There is a disconcerting numbness about him, an implacable coldness that makes the Rabbit realize…there is no coming back now. The cabinet…the darkness…__**no**__. Aro cannot mean to…__**NO**__._

_This is when he loses control. All his power, all his lies, his false ideas and godless dreams…the Rabbit scratches and claws, making no marks on the smooth glass. But if he doesn't claw outward, he will claw inward. He needs to break something._

_So he flings words at Aro, desperate, enraged…terrified. Knees shaking, body trembling…and he hates Aro. Hates him more than anyone in existence. "You were always jealous of my power!" He slams his body against the sides, towards the light as Aro lifts the bottle and shifts it into the shadows of the cabinet. "Now you're just packing me away again. Me, the only one capable of protecting the Tree and the Portal Worlds!"_

_Aro gives no sign of hearing. The darkness creeps all around the Rabbit, a familiar shadow. Oppressive. The darkness in the Trickster's Hat. The stupid, dumb fear. The loneliness._

"_You wish…" he's hissing, spitting. He must look like a feral little animal now, his katanas clacking uselessly in his sheaths. "You wish you'd never taken me from the hat, don't you! You think this will fix that?! Make up for your mistake?!"_

_That is when Aro pauses. That is when his tearful eyes seem to actually, truly look at the Rabbit. "That, my old friend," the Treewalker looks so impossibly hurt, so betrayed and torn that for a moment, the Rabbit is quiet. "That is where you could __**not**__ be more wrong. I'll be damned for it…but at least, at least I've stopped you. Forever."_

_And he closes the doors on the Cold One's enraged screams._

* * *

Phileas was not a pretty sight. Zaroff had done his best, wrapping the Rabbit's head and shoulder with linen. The strong, spicy scent of yarrow made his eyes water as he ground it up into a salve to slip under the bandages. He could handle Phileas' shoulder, his tongue, and even the facial wounds. But with his eye so deeply mangled there was no telling what damage had been done to his brain. No telling if he would ever wake up again, or what manner of person he would be if he did.

It wasn't mere luck, but it was certainly most fortunate that the other Treewalkers showed up when they did.

Zaroff heard what sounded like miniature explosions and jolted from the Rabbit's bedside. He opened the door of their hut only to see Portals blinking open at the edge of the woods. Figures were struggling through the meadow, indiscriminately flinging Disarming Dust around and triggering the hidden Wards. It made their progress far slower than it would have been otherwise.

And they hadn't even touched the massive Ward still guarding the Tree. As Zaroff raced down to the edge to wave at them, he realized the meadow was littered with speckled green eggs and black feathers.

Crow eggs. So the plan had succeeded, even if it had been almost too late for the First Tree.

The figures came closer and he recognized Aro Molena and Timson Churchmouse. And the third Treewalker who wore a painfully familiar top hat, along with an old aviator jacket that swayed gently in the sunlight.

* * *

Phileas awoke to warm hands cupping his face. He stiffened, paws twitching in nervous instinct. After what had happened, he'd expected to wake up in awful, terrible pain.

The kindly grasp, the comforting _ssshh_ and the healing magic that tingled delightfully throughout his body…it was nice, but also a shock.

It would have helped his nerves immensely if he could _see_.

"It's alright, Phileas…I've got you."

Jeremiah Hazelnut. The Rabbit somehow managed to stiffen even further, both embarrassed and suddenly exhausted. The new Head of their Order had done more for him than any being alive. But he still caused Phileas unreasonable confusion.

Sometimes, when the nights were cold, the memories sharp, or the guilt was gnawing away at his stomach, talking with Jeremiah was like conversing with the doctor who had amputated a limb, or brought you the news that your loved one had died. At other times, times of bright sun and strong spirit and new hope, it was like reminiscing with an old friend. And at all times, good or bad, the Rabbit had absolutely no idea why Jeremiah meant quite so much to him.

So of course, he handled the situation by being as awkward as he could be, whenever at all possible.

Jeremiah sensed his discomfort and reluctantly drew his hands away. Phileas was left alone in the darkness, and he clutched a handful of bedding. His ears were so solidly bandaged that he couldn't swivel the good one, couldn't detect the breath of any other beings. "I…who else is there?"

Two voices spoke over each other in embarrassed, gruff syllables. Aro and Zaroff. Timson's squeak cut through their stumbling. "It is I, Timson Dandelion. Also Mr. Molena and Mr. Zaroff and Mr. Hazelnut, sir!"

Phileas could _feel_ Jeremiah's warm smile turn towards his student. "Yes, he knows _I'm_ here, Timson."

He imagined Timson's blush.

"And the Crows? They're defeated?" Phileas could hear the Tree's branches outside, warbling softly in the wind. "The Heart Root?"

"Properly hidden again," Zaroff sniffed, "We collapsed your tunnel. It was astonishingly easy to undo your work."

"Mmm. Tell me, did your _cutting board_ come in handy?"

"Jeremiah healed your tongue and now all you can do with it is make snide remarks?"

"Ha. Ha." Zaroff's acidic comebacks were the equivalent of liquid courage for Phileas at that moment. Smiling, he shifted to a more comfortable position and turned his head towards the sound of Zaroff's voice. "I'd roll my eyes if I had any."

The silence in the room is deafening. The Rabbit didn't know why they were all taking this harder than he was…perhaps the reality hadn't sunk in for him yet. But his own personal breakdown could wait. "I've lost an eye before, you know. I'm an old hat at this."

"Oh, _shut up_!" Zaroff snarled suddenly. There was the sound of footsteps and then a loud bang. Phileas realized it was the front door slamming.

"Well," he said into a milder, but still uncomfortable, silence. "He's remarkably excitable for his age."

"_Phileas_." Jeremiah said. One word was all he needed to get his point across. _Zaroff __**cares**__ about you._

The Rabbit sighed. Especially as he became aware of the heavy grief that was rolling off Aro in waves. He found himself wishing he and Aro were alone, so they could talk. But their Chief had a point. "I know. Thank you."

"I found a Spark," Jeremiah said again, never one to dwell on a lesson, "and I'm not quite sure what it's doing there. I could try to…to fan it back into light, to give you sight again, but most probably you'd just lose the Spark as well."

"No, thank you," the Rabbit replied quickly, softly. He started to sit up. Jeremiah reached out and took his shoulders, helping him the rest of the way. He looked in Jeremiah's direction. The 'Spark' Jeremiah referred to…if Phileas focused hard enough, he could see a blue glimmer, like a will-o-the wisp floating in the dark. Jeremiah's soul. "Please, Jeremiah…could you find Zaroff? Bring him back?"

Jeremiah understood. He always did. He stood up, giving the Rabbit's shoulder a gentle squeeze. Touched by the warmth from the man, Phileas ducked his head and sighed. The front door creaked open and shut again.

A chair groaned. Soft steps, the muffled slap of flipflops on wood. Then the bed dipped and something like a mountain of wool sat beside him that smelled comfortingly of patchouli and incense. "Your life is unnaturally long," Aro lamented. His voice was rough with emotion. "You will be blind for a long, long time."

"Don't pity me, Aro. I'm no innocent. It could have happened to Jeremy. Now _that_ would be a tragedy."

Contrary to his usual behavior, Aro didn't deny it. Didn't tell him to be quiet, tell him that he was his friend, that he was already redeemed. Didn't sit there in silence as the murders of the past loomed over them, too terrible to be forgiven, too awful to be spoken of. "The Spark…" the Rabbit's ear perked up. With his Inner Eye as powerful as it was, Aro could have grasped what the magical traces in his head meant. "Do you see…them?" _Of course he had._

"Sometimes." Phileas stretched out into the ether, narrowing in on that blue pinpoint of light. A pain began to grow and blossom behind his ruined eyes, aching bone and brain.

"What about right now?"

He could see Owl's wings, flashing like fireflies. Hovering over Aro's grey, ghostly figure. Somehow the living were even harder to see then the dead. Owl's warbling voice caused the Rabbit to freeze from whisker to claw. He had not considered that his ears would be affected as well. "We forgive you, Phileas."

Both wings appeared suddenly, framing Aro in a protective wreath. "Both of you."

"They forgive you, Aro," he said suddenly. Although he knew there was nothing to forgive. And Owl knew that. Everyone knew that. But it was what Aro needed to hear.

It is what they all needed to hear, sometimes.

Aro gave a shuddering breath, leaning back against the wall. Hesitant, half-afraid, Phileas held his paw out. He was so certain there would be no response that his good ear quivered in shock when he felt Aro's warm hand curl over his. "I…" his voice caught in his throat. He tried again. "I suppose now…Quartets and tea with us sinners here won't be such an ordeal to you? Perhaps you might take it up again?"

"Perhaps," Aro replied. He held onto the Rabbit, held him tight. "I would not have tried to come here at all, unless I thought you would someday be my friend again."

Phileas stared at nothing. Surprisingly easy to do when that was all he could see. "I've been an awful mistake, haven't I?" he was certain he wasn't crying. Certain that relief and guilt weren't breaking apart inside of him like crashing waves on a bleak shore.

"You've been…difficult. There were things in you I wouldn't have known how to fight even if you'd told me about them. There are things in you, even now, that I know you won't share. There was always fear in you, a fear that ate you up and devoured everyone I held dear. Maybe you never should have been made a Treewalker. Maybe I should have waited, or let someone else apprentice you. But…" Aro's hand had moved. It was at the back of his head, between his ears. Heavy, warm, and kind. "Rescuing you from that magician, raising you, adopting you?"

His thumb stroked comforting circles in the Rabbit's fur. "That was a _good thing_, and _you_ were a good thing, and you can be again." His arm suddenly wrapped around Phileas' narrow, wasted shoulders. He pulled him in close, ignoring the Rabbit's gasp of surprise and protest. "You were _never a mistake_."

Phileas burst into tears.

* * *

Aro was not the only one to have a heart-to-heart before the Treewalkers left. Jeremiah took Phileas aside beneath the Tree's shadow. Kazimir, Aro, and Timson were finishing off breakfast inside the little hut, shortly before they would part ways and return to their posts in the Portal Worlds. The Rabbit had not noticed the Head of his Order follow him outside while the others ate.

Finally, at long last, Jeremiah told him the tale of their acquaintance. How, during the Marquis' imprisonment, the First Tree had been threatened by Kazimir, still black and bitter with his own life of sin. How it sent a magical copy of the Marquis de Hoto into the world, a living, breathing illusion of his glory days. A true hero who set about finding an apprentice and training him to save the Tree and restore the Order of Treewalkers.

His Once-Was and Could-Have-Been had chosen well, Phileas remarked. He sounded bitter, and harsh, but only because of regret. Only because that was the life he could have had, if he'd not become a murderer and traitor.

Jeremiah took his acidic reply in stride, delving into stories of the wonderful things he'd heard about the Marquis de Hoto, and his great deeds. And as he went on and on Phileas felt a sickness creeping up his throat. He felt like he was going to throw up, or scream. Just when he thought he couldn't bear it any longer Jeremiah became very quiet.

"I shall always be fond of you, you know." At Phileas' disbelieving snort, Jeremiah seemed to hesitate. Nervous like the little boy he had once been. But his aura flared brighter and his voice grew stronger. "Because yes, we never had those experiences together. But in another world, another time, we could have. You have to understand…the Marquis was better than a storybook, better than a magic wand. He was my hero, my father, when my father had been taken from the world. And then he was gone. And when Aro told me that the masked figure that aided me, the one with the cold, menacing presence, was _you_…I couldn't believe it. You were alive but broken. You were my hero, but a monster. You didn't even know me. It was hard to accept. Then…then I thought I could help you."

"Declaw me, more like," the Rabbit replied. A voice in his head was screaming for him to stop. He was good at ignoring it. "Transported me to where I will serve out my life sentence. And I'm not ungrateful, really, I'm not. But even you, Jeremiah Hazelnut, whose spirit glows like the sun…even you can't make me clean. Can't make me good. I can never be what I was."

Silence. He felt like Jeremiah was smiling, but he doubted himself. Jeremiah was always smiling. Besides overpowering empathy and stubborn cheer, the Treewalker also had the uncanny ability to know when silence was needed, when to be slow and serious. He turned to look at the haze bordering the meadow, listening to the slow chirping of the crickets, lazy with midday heat.

"I may be what you and others call 'good'," he said at last, keeping his gaze locked on the world around them. "But perhaps that's because my demons…and I have them, believe me…maybe they're monsters only I can see. And you? The world sees yours because you surrendered to them. And maybe the world won't forget, though between you and me they're probably too busy not to."

"But me? I don't want to forget. Did you know that there are moments when I think of you? Not the Marquis. Not my old master with his shining coat and flaring ruffles and dancing laugh. No. I think about a grumpy, battered old Rabbit living with his demons under a Tree. And I can't sleep when I'm thinking about it, because I still don't know how you do it. I can't even imagine."

Jeremiah was turned to him now. Phileas could feel the sound of his voice, sinking into his fur like warmth from the sun. "It is far, far braver to live with yourself, sometimes, with the knowledge of what you've done…then it is to surrender to death, however well earned. Justice passed you by, perhaps, but that doesn't mean Mercy will be any kinder. I don't know if I could live with that…which makes me think, you might have some courage in you after all." There was a shifting sound, as if Jeremiah were straightening his hat or his aviator jacket. "I brought you here, but somehow, against all odds, you're _still_ here. And that is a heroic feat in and of itself, Phileas."

With a firm clasp to his shaking paw, Jeremiah left him. Phileas heard the doors to the hut slam open and he ducked behind the Tree, hiding himself between the roots. He had already said his goodbyes to Aro and cried into the man's arms more than once. He was starting to cry now. His tattered pride was tired of crying today, and he decided to wait until his visitors were gone, and his eyes stopped leaking.

He heard the sound of Portals warping across the field, but he still didn't get up. The sun moved across the sky…he felt more heat on his right side then his left. It was getting colder. But he stayed, alone with his thoughts, wrestling with relief and joy and even a bit of self-forgiveness that he really didn't feel like he deserved to have. Which only led to more guilt.

"There you are," a thin, weedy voice interrupted his confused reverie. Phileas flinched at the unexpected company as Zaroff came and sat on the roots, perched up somewhere near his elbow. "I thought I smelled that particular brand of Eu-De-Self-Loathing you like to wear."

"That's your Yarrow." Phileas murmured, trying to argue but unable to muster any fire. "I smell like a pepper farm."

"Be grateful. I could have used Comfrey," Kazimir growled. "Here, drink this tea or it will be wasted."

A hot teacup was rather haphazardly forced into his hold. Even as he fumbled to find the handle and keep it steady, Phileas could feel subtle tremors from Kazimir's shaking hands. Elderly hands. Liver-spotted hands, when he last saw them.

His throat was suddenly thick and painful as he realized they would need each other now, more than ever before. An old man and a blind rabbit, protecting a Tree they had once betrayed. A man, a bunny, and a trick. Ironic and painful. At least there wasn't any top hat between them to complete the picture.

The tea was bad. Too much sugar.

"Can you…" Kazimir cut himself off with a loud sip. Coughed hesitantly. "Can you really see the Spirits?"

"Yes. Why on earth would I make that up?" Phileas grumbled.

"Because I know you and your manipulative nature," Kazimir grumbled back. There was blessed silence again, though not for long. "Do you see them…all the time?"

"No. If I try hard enough, it's like shouting into the void…and if I'm lucky or the spirits are willing, an echo comes back."

He heard Kazimir blow on his tea to cool it. It must have been an automatic motion, since their tea was chilling fast in the night air. Kazimir's knee felt surprisingly warm where it brushed against his arm. He turned to look and saw blue swirling around his bones…like a skeleton of light. He smiled to himself, realizing what it meant.

Unaware, Kazimir spoke again. "You wanted penance. Not for you…but for Aro."

The Rabbit nodded. Glanced at the blue light again. "And you have taken your Gift back…not for yourself, but for the Tree."

"I did it for you," Kazimir muttered fiercely, with a strong, quiet passion that surprised Phileas. "The Tree is wonderful and all-important, I know, but when I whispered the old words…all I could think about was saving your worthless hide."

"But that…" Phileas had to say it. He didn't want to cry again. Not today, not in front of Kazimir. "That was a Prayer of Death. So, you thought I was…?"

"I didn't know for _sure_!" Kazimir growled, outraged. "Alright? I wasn't really thinking at all because I thought I _might have lost you,_ you insufferable rodent!"

_Rabbits aren't rodents,_ he should have said. Instead, "Do you love me then, Kaz? Like you loved the Marquis when you were a boy?"

"Decidedly not!" Kazimir snapped, "Him, I admired, longed to imitate, delighted in his conversation, and trusted like a brother. You…your magic is more valuable to the Tree then mine ever was. Also, I'm just used to having you around."

"I love you too, Kaz." The Rabbit smiled serenely up at him.

Kazimir stared at him, working himself into a rage. Finally, he spluttered, "Well you won't be giving me any more haircuts, I can tell you. I'm going to grow it out long again. Style it myself! I don't need you! I can make my own tea!"

Phileas smiled, stretching back and nestling into the bark, feeling the Tree hold him in its rough, comforting embrace. "The Spirits are telling me, Kazimir, that your 'tea' is the reason you're aging so badly."

Kazimir scoffed. "_You_ age me. Being bald ages me."

"Well go ahead then, throw fashion away and comfort yourself with a horrific mane of straggling locks."

Making a rude sound, Kazimir resumed drinking. Phileas took a moment to think.

"You know what? I'm _thankful_ Fate took my other eye. Because now, no matter what you do to your hair…" he smiled, feeling the power of Kazimir's glare over the rim of his teacup. "At least _I _don't have to _look_ at it."

There was a spray of warm liquid and a hoarse coughing sound as Kazimir choked on his tea, spurting most of it directly into Phileas' face.

FINISH

* * *

**_Author's Notes: Hello everyone! Sorry to be back with a sequel to a story of a game probably none of you have played...but these sequences were playing around in my head even as I finished Hireath - To Miss the Home One's Never Known._**

**_The art isn't mine...it lead to a dead website when I tried to find the author. But there isn't much art out there for Night of the Rabbit so you can easily find it by searching for the Marquis de Hoto._**

**_I hope if you made it this far you enjoyed the ride, and I hope this wonderful, magical world has let go of me at last. Thank you so much! My Muse and I appreciate it and any scraps of comment or criticism you can leave for her. :)_**


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